


Mind and Body

by moonblossom



Series: Ink and Honour [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Bathtubs, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is very glad to be home, where he can finally be with Sherlock in every sense of the word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind and Body

**Author's Note:**

> The long-awaited reunion scene immediately following the events of Ink and Honour. If you're not keen on reading epistolary format, just know that this is an AU set in the Regency era, and John and Sherlock have confessed their feelings for each other via letters but have not seen each other yet since that confession.
> 
> Thanks to dee for looking this over and whipping the awkward bits into shape.

The carriage wheels rattled over the ruts in the road and John felt his stomach lurch. The sights and smells outside the window were familiar now; they were approaching London. The trip had been long and tedious, and John was looking forward to a great many things. A warm meal, a proper bath, a clean bed. But, more than anything else, he was looking forward to seeing Sherlock.

At the thought of Sherlock, John's pulse quickened in his chest, and if he should be so charitable as to admit it, his groin. It had been well and good to exchange letters, but what was to happen now? Would Sherlock be able to tell that John had never bedded a man? Of course he would. Would it make a lick difference to him? John genuinely had no idea if Sherlock had ever been with a man, or a woman for that matter. John had assumed that tawdry physicality was beneath Sherlock - how those vulgar and delicious letters had proven him wrong!

Sighing in frustration, he rubbed thoughtfully at his whiskers and longed for a good sharp blade. He had not been able to shave since leaving Edinburgh, and was feeling distinctly scruffy. He hoped Sherlock would not mind.

In an effort to distract himself, John buried his nose in the bundle of lilacs he had carefully carried from the boarding house bearing their name. He had put them in an earthenware pot with some water, and although the carriage ride had been a tad messy, and a few of the blossoms had withered, the look on Mrs. Hudson's face when she saw the lovely blooms would be well worth it. And if he happened to tuck a small floret into Sherlock's lapel at some point, a secret message between the two of them signifying the blush of first love, then so be it.

The attempt at distraction had clearly failed, as John was snapped out of his reverie by the carriage driver thumping on the door.

"Oi, mate, this is where you wanted to be, innit?"

Flushed, John nodded and stepped out. He was flustered and distracted, arms full of lilacs and luggage as he rummaged for the notes to pay the driver. He found himself immensely grateful for Sherlock's insistence months ago that he hadn't needed his walking stick - the last thing he needed currently was yet another object in his overfull arms.

He nodded at the driver and headed up the stairs to 221 Baker Street, shoulders squared in an attempt to hide the fact that his heart was pounding madly in his chest. He was mere moments from seeing Sherlock again. And seeing Sherlock for the first time, in a whole new light.

John flung the door open, eager anticipation all over his face, and was more than a little crestfallen when he discovered that Mrs. Hudson was alone in the front sitting room. She smiled at him, eyes lighting up when she noticed the bundle of lilacs.

"Oh, John, how sweet. I shall put them in the dining room to mask the odour of the black powder." She took the ceramic container from him and he nodded gratefully while considering her words.

"Black powder?"

Her lips pursed in a combination of annoyance and amusement John knew well.

"He got bored without you, the poor duck. He found one of your flintlocks."

Despite himself, John chuckled. "I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

"Not your fault, dear." She tutted, waving a dismissive hand in a gesture that reminded John oddly of Sherlock.

"No, but if I had not apologised for it, nobody would. Speaking of..." He trailed off, unsure of how to proceed, lest he betray his panic. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, grinned and nodded in the direction of the large staircase.

"If I should be so bold, John, I think he is as nervous as you are. He came down here, fussed with a couple of books, paced a hole in my good rug, and then stormed back upstairs without saying a word. Go to him. He is eager, I assure you. Just a bit perplexed by the whole thing, I suspect."

The tight ball that had been forming in John's stomach slowly released itself. Ridiculous, sweet Sherlock. He found himself grinning again, his heart thumping eagerly in his chest. Mrs. Hudson winked playfully at him.

"I think I shall go for a walk, that charming Angelo from the new Italian restaurant down the corner has requested my company a few times of late. He seems so interesting, and that food is so exotic!"

John was grateful for the pretense, and even more grateful at the prospect of the house belonging to him and Sherlock, even if only for an evening. Mrs. Hudson adjusted her hair and bustled out the front door, the satisfied smirk clear on her face.

Unable to wait any longer, John hauled his bag over his shoulder and headed up the stairs. His stomach was fluttering in nervous excitement, and he could hear Sherlock pacing in his rooms. He reached the top of the staircase and briefly debated going into his rooms to put down his bags. However, the urge to see Sherlock immediately superseded his military tidiness, and he simply left the bags in the hallway.

When John got to Sherlock's rooms, he hesitated for a moment. As he raised his arm, ready to rap his knuckles against the door, the panel swung open. Of course Sherlock had anticipated John's hesitance. The afternoon sunlight was pouring into Sherlock's room from the narrow window, limning him in golden radiance.

As he stood there, framed by the door and dusted by the sun, John found himself dumbstruck all over again by Sherlock's ethereal, nearly androgynous beauty. His eyes were sparkling with curiosity and excitement, and his full lips were playing in a seductive, mobile smirk.

He was dressed impeccably, which was a rarity for days when he had not left the house. His white under-shirt was set off by a warm cream neck-cloth, wrapped snugly around his long neck. His waistcoat was a warm, rich eggplant with a satin sheen, and his breeches were very black, and very tight. John swallowed thickly, a lump forming in his throat.

Sherlock's hair was loosely curled in a way that suggested nonchalance, but John suspected had taken a fair bit of arranging, and he smiled at Sherlock's eagerness to impress him. Suddenly John felt impossibly filthy and unshaven after his long journey. He ran a hand through his sandy hair as they stood in silence, studying each other.

It was Sherlock who finally broke the silence. "Welcome home, John."

To John, hearing Sherlock's voice again, that rich rumble he had missed so very much, was like a nerve tonic. Suddenly, he was eager and energised.

"Are you going to invite me in, Sherlock? Or should I sleep in the hall tonight? I do not think I could bear to go back to my room, so if this is the closest I should get to you, so be it."

For a moment, Sherlock's face fell. The expression was gone as quickly as it had come, once he realised John was teasing him gently. Charmingly flummoxed, he stepped aside and gestured for John to come in.

"I am not accustomed to this courting nonsense, John. You shall have to be patient with me."

John smiled, and tentatively reached out to take Sherlock's hand in his own. "I am always patient with you, Sherlock. It is a requirement to being your friend."

Sherlock stepped closer to John, looming large in the space between them. John licked his lips and stared up at Sherlock. He felt a bit like a mouse trapped in the lion's gaze, but felt not the least bit threatened.

"It is good that one of us should be patient, John, because I have no interest in being so." Abruptly, Sherlock slammed the door shut with his free hand and crowded John backwards, pinning him to the flat expanse of the wood. He tilted his head down and pressed his lips to John’s with no hesitation, no awkwardness.

John, however, was caught off-guard and was unsure how to react. He felt himself stiffen and freeze, and Sherlock, misinterpreting, pulled back. The hurt on his face was obvious, despite his attempt to muffle it.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and John did not wait to find out if it was to apologise or to insult him defensively. Instead, he leaned forward and remedied the situation by slipping his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, silencing him.

His mouth was warm and wet and inviting, and John's concerns dissipated as he deftly ran his tongue along the inside of Sherlock's plush lower lip before gently scraping it between his teeth. The moan that escaped Sherlock's mouth into John's own was entirely rewarding and satisfying. Giving in to further impulse, John ran his fingers through the soft curls at Sherlock's nape, reveling in the sensation of his elegant, composed lover going limp and leaning against him for support.

John gasped slightly as Sherlock - ever the bold one - brought his hands to John's hips and grasped his buttocks firmly. The sensation of being held in such strong, large hands was one John found himself hoping he would experience very frequently.

They stood there, hands roaming and tongues dancing, for what felt like a beautiful eternity, until Sherlock pulled away, breathless and panting. His cheeks were vivid and red, his eyes glazed with lust and excitement. Sherlock's prick was already beginning to make itself known, a teasing outline distorting the front of his tight breeches. John was certain he was in a similar state, and yet he felt no shame.

"Sherlock..." he panted, leaning against the door for support. "Perhaps we should discuss this?"

The smile playing about Sherlock's lips was cynical, but his eyes were wide, betraying his feelings. "Have we not discussed this enough in our letters? I love you, John Watson, and I was under the impression you felt the same. Was I misguided?" Again, there, that flash of vulnerability Sherlock worked so hard to disguise, and John felt his concerns melt away.

"You are right, of course. You are always."

Sherlock smirked again, leaning in to suck a livid kiss to the small swath of exposed skin of John's throat. The sensation made him weak in the knees, made his cock twitch eagerly. As he blinked and looked over his shoulder, John noticed something on Sherlock's bedside table.

The small brown glass bottle made John take pause. Something about it both excited him and terrified him all at once. Wistfully, he pulled away again and Sherlock followed his gaze.

"Mineral oil?"

"It was the best option available."

"Oh, and were there many then? Options, I should say?"

Sherlock's shrug was surprisingly eloquent, and John found himself mesmerised by the flutter of his neck-cloth.

"I was astoundingly bored while you were off abandoning me, John. Rather than wither and expire, I chose to perform a series of experiments regarding the viscosity and demulsibility of all the various liquids in the household. Mrs. Hudson was obligingly unobservant throughout."

John smiled, idly stroking Sherlock's arm. For a moment, he merely marvelled at the fact that he was able to touch Sherlock like this, whenever he was compelled to do so, without fear of repercussion. At least in the sanctity of their home, with the blessing of their understanding landlady.

"Yes, she is being incredibly accommodating. She left when I got home. I assume to give us some privacy."

Sherlock looked genuinely perplexed, which brought soft laughter to John's lips. Sherlock chuckled too, and John found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss as they laughed.

"Where did she go?"

"I believe she is entertaining that Italian gentleman who owns the restaurant down the road."

"How odd, I have never found her to be."

"Found her to be what?"

"Entertaining."

Another cascade of nervous but genuine laughter ran through John's body. Sherlock responded in kind, and John gave in to the compulsion to feel Sherlock laughing against his mouth. Suddenly impatient and flooded with confidence, he tilted his head and pressed his lips against Sherlock's, finding them as warm and welcoming as earlier. Their mingled laughter sent little sparks straight to John's heart.

As Sherlock pulled away, he looked decidedly rumpled. His neck-cloth was coming undone, exposing a delicious swath of skin at his throat, his cheeks were vivid and pink, and his hair - already so wild and curled - was a mussed riot. Unable to control himself, John reached up and ran his hands through the curls and Sherlock let out a low moan that reverberated straight in John's prick.

With great difficulty, John pulled away from Sherlock, his hand lingering along Sherlock's neck.

"If we are to do this..." he gestured awkwardly to the narrow space between them, and then even more awkwardly to the bed, "I would quite like to wash first. I have had a long journey, and suspect I brought half of the grime of Edinburgh home with me. I imagine you would prefer to not have it in your bed."

There was an odd twinkle in Sherlock's eye. "No, but I would appreciate collecting samples, perhaps from your hair? I am very curious to compare the differences in London dirt to that of places North."

John smiled, Sherlock's earnestness setting his heart aflutter for the thousandth time since he had arrived home. He ruffled a hand through his hair, feeling the grit and grime. "I think I should be glad to oblige."

"Excellent!" Sherlock's face split into a wide grin. "I anticipated you would be keen to wash up upon arriving home. The metal tub is already in your bedroom, and the water is heating on the hearth."

The warmth that spread through John's chest and out to the tips of his fingers and toes had nothing to do with the prospect of hot water and everything to do with the look on Sherlock's face. Whoever would have expected Sherlock Holmes to be such a thoughtful partner?

Sherlock barged forcefully into the hallway and down to John's room, where he carefully poured the kettle of boiling water into the small metal tub in the centre of the room, where it mingled with the lukewarm water already in there. He ran his long, thin fingers through the water, combining it, and John stared hungrily. He had never felt such uninhibited, unmitigated _want_ before. The women he'd bedded had all been fun, unattached romps, fucks of boredom and convenience. But now every single fibre of his being was calling out to Sherlock, and even the most mundane of gestures drove John wild.

Apparently Sherlock was well aware of the effect he was having. He turned to John and looked up at him through thick lashes and slowly licked the warm water off his fingertips. John groaned quietly and shifted slightly to accommodate his tumescent prick. 

"You could simply remove your breeches, you know. You would be significantly more comfortable, and you are going to have to step out of them sooner or later." Leave it to Sherlock to turn a logical observation into seduction. John fidgeted again, but emboldened, began to undress.

He started by unknotting and unwinding the long silk cloth around his throat, thrilling at the eager way Sherlock followed his fingers. He pulled the cloth off and let his collar fall open as his hands moved down to unbutton his waistcoat. Normally John paid careful attention to his possessions, and would have folded things neatly and placed them on a chair or in a drawer to protect them, but right now it felt right to simply let them fall to the floor. A little theatrical, perhaps, but Sherlock seemed to enjoy the pretense.

As John's waistcoat fell to the floor with a soft thump, Sherlock swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing in a most tempting way. Unable to resist, John leant forward and pressed one gentle kiss to the flesh of Sherlock's throat, just above his own collar. He was rewarded with Sherlock fumbling awkwardly to get his neck-cloth off, fumbling to expose as much skin as he could. The combination of cocky confidence and awkward nervousness set off a pang deep within John's chest. How could he have grown so unbearably fond of Sherlock and not realised it sooner? Would they ever have got to this point had John not been called away, or would they still be dancing nervously around each other, unable or unwilling to confess...

"John?" Sherlock's voice, thick with affection and possibly arousal, snapped John's attention back to the present and he felt himself flushing again. He stood there, awkward in his half-undressed state. Ever the clever one, Sherlock nudged a chair towards John. He sat down gratefully and began to unbuckle his shoes, letting them fall to the floor with an emphatic thud.

Taking a deep breath to boost his confidence, John unbuttoned his breeches, groaning softly at the lessened pressure against his groin. He was certainly nowhere near full hardness - not yet, but the damnable bottoms were so tight that any relief was welcome.

John looked nervously at Sherlock, unsure about how to proceed. Sherlock merely made a little _go on_ gesture with his hand, encouraging and lascivious, and John threw caution to the wind, stepping out of his breeches. His undershirt was long enough to keep him decent, but barely. If his prick got any thicker, though, he knew it would hike the undershirt up obscenely, and he flushed.

Sherlock walked slowly around behind him, having somehow acquired a small bone comb and a glass dish. He held the comb up, suddenly hesitant again, and John relaxed and smiled.

"May I?"

"I should hope my hair is not as dirty as all that, but you are welcome to look."

John could feel Sherlock's presence, warm and solid, hovering behind him without moving. He closed his eyes, to better build the feeling of anticipation. The first stroke of the comb was halting and hesitant, and admittedly not the most pleasant thing John had felt in his life, but all the discomfort faded away with the second stroke. Sherlock's hands were sure and swift, scraping the comb down to the roots of John's fine, dusty hair with decisive strokes. John felt invigorated, felt the rush of blood to his scalp. He realised he was moaning quietly and felt no compunction to muffle himself any longer.

Eventually, Sherlock dropped all pretense of collecting particulate and let the comb fall to the floor. He ran his long fingers through the short strands of John's hair, the motions oddly soothing.

"You have a wonderful skull, John. There is a new form of study that theorises the shape and form of the skull are indicative of various aspects of the personality contained within. I suspect it all to be superstitious rubbish, and yet..." he paused, running his fingers down to the nape of John's neck and eliciting a frisson of pleasure down his spine. "And yet, your skull feels noble and strong to me. I wonder what that means."

John shivered as Sherlock began to drag his fingers down under the collar of his undershirt.

"I think it means that you are a sentimental fool." For a fraction of a second, John nearly regretted letting that slip out, but Sherlock merely coughed out a genuinely amused laugh.

"Normally I would disagree vehemently. And yet, there is always the exception that proves the rule." John started, nearly jumping from his chair, as he felt the unexpected sensation of Sherlock's warm breath, less than an inch from his throat, just behind his ear. Had Sherlock really dulled his reflexes so much? No, John mentally corrected himself. He was not dull. He was relaxed. Well and truly relaxed.

"Come, John. I think it is high time you get in that tub. I am attempting to be patient, to give you the opportunity to tidy yourself up before I have my way with you, but a man only has so much patience."

As Sherlock murmured those words, so laced with obscene promise, John felt his heart quickening, pounding so loudly in his chest he was certain Sherlock could hear it too. His prick twitched eagerly, filling out and pulling further away from his body, to the point where his undershirt was being pulled lewdly upwards. Emboldened by the sudden exposure, he rose up out of the chair and turned to face Sherlock.

He pulled the cotton shirt up over his head and very nearly threw it across the room. He stepped in front of Sherlock, as naked as the day he'd been born, and stood at rest with his hands clasped behind his back for lack of anything better to do. He was certain he looked absurd, what with his scarred shoulder and his cock ridiculously half-hard and pulling away from his body, and yet Sherlock stared at him as though he contained the greatest mysteries of man.

"John..." His voice was breathy and low, lower than ever, and John nearly had to grasp the back of the chair to hold himself steady. Sherlock sounded so painfully vulnerable. Something about being so completely exposed in front of Sherlock, and yet still feeling as though he had some modicum of control over the situation was a confusing and heady thing.

With a nearly clinical efficiency, foregoing any sense of drama, Sherlock stripped down to his undershirt so quickly that John nearly missed it. His undershirt was thin linen and quite sheer, and John's eyes were drawn to the teasing shadow of dark hair at Sherlock's groin, such a stark contrast against his fair skin.

John caught Sherlock's gaze and raised one eyebrow in silent question. Sherlock smirked.

"I do not wish to get my clothes wet."

John nodded solemnly, pretending as though he believed Sherlock's thin lie, and they both laughed softly.

Overcome with another fit of boldness, John gestured to his naked body. "Thankfully, I do not run the risk of that." He stepped into the tub, the warm water instantly soothing and relaxing his tired feet. He sank into the water, reveling in the way it enveloped him.

Sherlock pulled the chair closer to the tub and lowered himself onto it, taking great pains to ensure his undershirt remained neatly tucked under his bollocks. John itched to reach out and yank it up, to expose Sherlock's secrets, but he refrained. There would be time in spades later, and Sherlock seemed to have this whole encounter planned out in his head already.

He dipped one slender hand into the water, pointedly avoiding touching John. He cupped his palm and lifted his hand back out, a thin trickle escaping between his fingers as he brought his hand around and let the water pour slowly onto John's scalp. John moaned quietly and bit his lower lip. He had never let himself be coddled by anyone, but this seemed important to Sherlock, and he had to admit that he quite liked being pampered.

Suddenly the room was filled with the scent of lavender and citron, and John's eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock lathering up a proper bar of soap. The luxury threw him off-balance, and he found himself wondering why Sherlock had indulged in something so frivolous.

"I should hope you did not liberate that from someone without their knowledge."

Sherlock held one soapy hand to his breast in a charming mockery of offense.

"I pocketed two bars the last time I had the misfortune of having to visit my dear brother. I assure you, he can afford the loss. You deserve to be clean, and I deserve to share my bed with someone who smells decent."

Sherlock's logic was infallible, and John set to laughing yet again. It felt as though he had not laughed this much since before leaving for Waterloo. His laugh was abruptly interrupted as Sherlock began massaging the thick foam into his hair, and working his way down to John's shoulders, and then under his arms. It tickled, but not unpleasantly.

He poured clean, cool water from an ewer onto John's head, carefully directing the water away from John's eyes. As he rinsed the residue away, he traced the outer edge of John's ear with one gentle finger.

John groaned, leaning his damp head against Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock, you are being deceptively generous..." He gasped slightly as Sherlock's agile fingers trailed down John's neck and onto his shoulder, lingering for a moment over the scar tissue he found there. John found himself suddenly self-conscious, but as Sherlock drew tiny concentric circles around the puckered nub of flesh, murmuring quiet observations to himself, John could not bring himself to complain.

"John, you misjudge me. I am essentially a selfish creature, and am enjoying myself immensely. It is greatly to my benefit to get you pliant and relaxed." John's eyelids drooped, heavy with desire, as Sherlock's soapy fingers found their way down his torso and to his cock, half-hard and bobbing gently in the warm water.

He groaned as Sherlock continued his exploration. The touches were feather-light and maddening. He filled out slowly, his penis reaching full hardness, but Sherlock pressed no further. He clearly had no intention of bringing John close to completion yet, but John found he did not mind the slow buildup of sensations in his groin. He brought his hips up to meet Sherlock's fingers and caused a cascade of water to slop over the edge of the little metal tub. The wave soaked Sherlock, rendering his already sheer undershirt completely translucent. It clung to his muscled form and thickening cock in a way that made John's heart catch in his throat.

Leaning out of the tub, John ran one soapy finger along the smooth, elegant line of Sherlock's jaw and sighed.

"You are so forward, so confident in all this. How am I to keep up?"

Sherlock's lush lips twitched into a smirk, one John found himself utterly transfixed by. "The secret to confidence, John, is to be certain things will go well. I have no need for hesitation."

"Have you lain with another man then, Sherlock?" John asked, though he truly did not want to know if the answer was yes. An irrational flare of jealousy surged through him and Sherlock, bastard that he was, laughed riotously.

"John, my John. Your face is utterly transparent. But you have nothing to be jealous of. I have never before cared to fuck anyone, man or woman."

The vulgar word in Sherlock's rich, deep voice made John's prick twitch in the water, and he shifted his knees in an attempt to hide his obvious need. Sherlock merely smirked again.

"You, however, have plenty of experience." Sherlock's gaze over him was thoughtful and appraising. If he was jealous, he made no sign. "Although, I suspect, only women. A charming young strumpet, perhaps? Gift from an old army friend?"

John flushed, mortified that his past was so transparent, and he found himself wishing the tub was deep enough to sink into. Instead, he made do with hiding his face with a wet flannel.

"Something of that nature, yes. But I cannot say I felt any emotional entanglements with any of the girls I have been with."

For a moment, Sherlock's face was unguarded, and he looked utterly relieved. John realised he had been disguising his emotions. He did not seem to care that John's body had been owned by others before, it was his heart that mattered. Once John was aware of that, he could no longer bear to be separated from Sherlock, even if it was only by a few gallons of water and a tin tub.

He stood up, splashing Sherlock again, but Sherlock did not seem to mind at all. He made quick work of rinsing the last of the suds off John's body with the ewer of water and the flannel, and wrapped John in a cotton towel he had thoughtfully brought into the room earlier.

Impatient, John pulled Sherlock to him, pressing their lips together in an unreasonably chaste kiss, considering all that separated them now was two thin, damp layers of fabric. Sherlock's erection throbbed against his hip, all the more obvious now. John groaned and Sherlock parted his lips, swallowing the sound. Taking control of the situation, John darted his tongue out between his lips, encountering no resistance from Sherlock. 

They pulled tighter together, Sherlock's hands warm on the small of John's back as John explored Sherlock's mouth. He bit gently on Sherlock's full lower lip, and Sherlock whimpered. The sound went straight to John's groin. He had been under the impression he could get no harder, no thicker, but Sherlock's needy little noises had proven him wrong. With each gasp, each muffled whine, another rush of blood flooded into John's prick, and it was throbbing nearly painfully now.

Unwillingly, John pulled away and sucked in a deep breath. He had been holding it unconsciously. Sherlock was clearly having a more profound impact on him than he'd realised. He gasped again and found himself staring at Sherlock's swollen lower lip.

"Perhaps we should head back to your bedroom?"

The look on Sherlock's face plainly said that this was the best idea that had ever crossed John's mind. John felt an entirely new wave of gratitude towards Mrs. Hudson for having had the forethought to leave the house earlier. He had no inclination to get dressed only to get undressed immediately afterwards.

They scurried down the hall back to Sherlock's room, and John found himself feeling five years younger. The whole situation was absurd and exciting, and Sherlock's eyes were glittering in a way that told John he was not alone. Long, forceful fingers wrapped around John's wrist, and Sherlock tugged him forward. They nearly tumbled into the room together, but Sherlock grabbed John's waist with his other hand and gracefully spun them around so John landed softly on the bed, his weight spread between his shoulders and his bottom.

Sherlock fell on top of him, surprisingly heavy, and John moaned as his erection was trapped between them. In a clearly calculated motion, Sherlock shifted his weight. The shift caused John's towel to come undone and aligned their erections, all in one smooth motion. John's hands scrabbled for purchase on Sherlock's thighs, and impulsively he grabbed the hem of Sherlock's undershirt and pulled upwards, exposing him as well.

The first brush of skin on skin was like a spark, like black powder lit at the base of John's spine. There were bright flashes set off behind his eyes, and if the pleasured yelp that escaped Sherlock's lips was anything to go by, John was not alone.

With an impish gleam in his eyes, Sherlock rocked his hips, rutting against John. John welcomed him and rocked back, grinding their pricks together in blissful friction. Sherlock’s fingers explored the length of John’s forearms, splayed on the bed. They lay entangled together for a few moments before Sherlock pulled away, a thoroughly predatory expression painting his features.

“John, do you trust me?”

John licked his lips. “Implicitly.” He had no notion of what Sherlock had in mind, but it was sure to be entertaining.

Sherlock pulled himself up off the bed and fell to his knees, nestling in the warm space between John's obscenely spread legs. John raised himself up on his elbows to better look at Sherlock, and he was immensely grateful that he did. The look on Sherlock's face was strangely reverential, as though he was worshipping at the altar of John's cock. The sacrilegious thought startled John, but there was truly no other way to describe it.

John caught his gaze, and the contact was sharp and intense and unbroken. Sherlock made a point of keeping his silvered, pellucid eyes locked on John's as he wrapped one hand around John's thick shaft. He slid his hand down, fully retracting the prepuce and exposing the tawny, engorged glans. John held his breath, eager and curious to see what Sherlock would do next.

Sherlock's lips were perfect - rosy and full and glistening with saliva, and he pressed them to the exposed head. John threw his head back and uttered a string of blasphemy, his hips bucking upwards before he could attempt to compose himself. A low chuckle emanated from Sherlock's throat and John was lost. He let himself fall to the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. If he continued to watch Sherlock with any serious intent, this would be well over before it had truly begun. 

Spurred on by John's reaction, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the base of John's erection, intensifying the sensation of blood thrumming through the organ, and John would have swooned had he not been lying down. The intensity was nothing though, compared to the moment when Sherlock parted his lips and engulfed the entire head. John could feel Sherlock probing with that sharp, clever tongue of his, alternately circling the crown and flickering against the fraenulum.

Each new movement sent a shiver up John's spine, and he bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. Sherlock sucked and licked and occasionally nibbled very lightly, and John lost all ability for conscious thought. He was made vaguely aware that his hips were bucking up off the bed only when Sherlock pushed him back down gently. He braced his free hand against the tender skin of John's hip, guiding him back down to the bed as his tongue intently traced every thick vein on John's shaft.

"God, Sherlock... Sherlock!" He stammered out with some difficulty. Sherlock pulled off John's prick, and the sudden rush of cold air onto his damp skin was invigorating and bracing. He sat up and looked down at Sherlock, who looked just as debauched as John felt. "Where did you learn to do such a thing?"

Sherlock grinned and pressed a demure, closed-mouth kiss to the tip of John's prick.

"More research, while I was bored and pining. I learnt many other things as well, and I am looking forward to showing you." He winked, and John decided he would rather not know for the time being. "Raise your feet onto the bed, John, and spread your thighs."

As John did so, there was another cool rush of air, this time to the most vulnerable and shameful part of him. And yet, had he not fantasised about Sherlock touching him there, penetrating him? He had, in fact, written it down in glorious detail. There was no going back  
now. He lowered himself back onto the bed and let himself be carried away by the waves of pleasure Sherlock was sure to bring.

Almost immediately, Sherlock's mouth - so hot and wet and inviting - had surrounded him again, and John gasped. His breath was coming more quickly now, but the brief conversation had brought him back from the brink and he was not yet in danger of spilling into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock sucked eagerly, sucked as though his life depended on it, and John bucked up, nearly fucking Sherlock's mouth. He tightened the musculature of his stomach and thighs, attempting to hold his hips down, and heard Sherlock tutting around the thickness of his prick.

Instinctively, John relaxed his muscles. As he did, he felt Sherlock's hand, slick and smooth, gently cupping his bollocks. John had experimented a couple of times, rolling and tugging them as he touched himself, but it felt like nothing compared to this. Each time Sherlock took the length of John's cock into his mouth, he would tug gently on his scrotum, letting the sensitive skin slip through his hand and pull back close to John's body. The motion lit a fire in John's gut, coiled hot and tight.

Just as he thought he was close to losing control yet again, Sherlock relinquished his hold on John's testicles and let his slick hand slip behind them, knuckles grazing against the flat patch of sensitive flesh. A quick glance over John's shoulder confirmed that the small bottle of mineral oil was no longer there, and cemented his suspicion that Sherlock had it in hand already.

The first graze of Sherlock's slick finger over John's sensitive hole was nearly more than he could bear. He sucked in another deep breath in an attempt to prevent himself from hyperventilating.

Sherlock pressed the tip of his finger gently against the puckered muscle, waiting patiently for it to welcome him. "Breathe and relax, John. I have been led to believe this might feel a bit unusual." 

Unusual was certainly one way of describing it. Part of his mind recognised that it was unnatural, an intrusion, and willed him to fight against the breach, but the rest of him was desperate and eager to pull Sherlock's finger deep into him. He did his best to relax and felt the muscles unclench around the finger, felt Sherlock probe deeper into him, felt Sherlock moan around his erection, sending pleasant little vibrations deep into John's core.

With excruciating delicacy, Sherlock eased a second finger into John. The stretch was a slow burn, not entirely pleasant, but he fluttered his tongue against the length of John's prick in a way that was thoroughly distracting and John sighed contentedly. Sherlock's fingers probed, unerringly accurate, and when they found their target John saw stars.

Each time Sherlock's fingers stroked over that sensitive spot deep within John, his hips bucked forward and he felt a spasm, a gentle flow of pre-ejaculate leaking from him. Sherlock lapped it all up eagerly. When he was not rubbing that spot and drinking the fruits of his labour, Sherlock would stroke the base of John's prick in tight, steady strokes and widen the space between his fingers, opening John wider and wider.

The burn had dulled to a pleasant warmth, and the surrounding sensations were more than enough to make up any discomfort John had felt earlier. There was a sensation akin to a tourniquet being tightened and tightened and tightened deep within John, and then with a sudden rush, it was released. The ring of muscle Sherlock had been toying with unclenched as John shuddered, and his cock twitched violently, almost as if he were having an orgasm, but the sensation was less intense, and there was no physical evidence of it. It was the strangest sensation John had ever experienced, and it was entirely unsatisfying, ramping up his arousal yet another notch with still no release.

"Sh... Shl..." He moaned, the power of eloquent speech nearly out of his reach at this point. "Please. Fuck me."

Sherlock slid John's prick out of his mouth, leaving John cold and clammy and _wanting_. His fingers remained buried deep within John, but were perfectly still, and it was an impossible torment. John squirmed and writhed, attempting to force Sherlock's fingers to move within him, but to no avail.

"Are you certain you want to proceed, John? Do you not still have some strange notion of sin and impropriety?"

Blessed with a sudden moment of clarity and coherence, John sat up and glared forcefully at Sherlock. Sherlock's long fingers twitched and separated as he moved, and John gasped before speaking.

"If this is truly a sin, Sherlock, then let us be sinful. I cannot bear the notion of having been exposed to these sensations only to have them taken away from me."

Another slow, seductive smile spread across Sherlock's face as he leant down and exhaled gently on John's over-sensitised shaft, his breath cool against the dampness there. John let out a soft, tremulous moan.

"I am very glad to hear that, John, as I would have been incredibly unhappy had you requested I stop."

"As would I, Sherlock. You should be aware that I am incapable of saying no to you by now."

Sherlock traced his closed lips up and down the length of John's prick, which twitched over and over in response. John exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Are you now? Interesting..." He murmured, lips still brushing the velvety skin of John's shaft. "And what if I were to say I wanted to stop? Would you argue with me then?" To fortify his argument, Sherlock slipped his fingers from John's anus, and John gasped as he felt the muscle twitch and release slowly. As Sherlock did so, however, he buried his nose in the nest of John's fair pubic hair and inhaled deeply, as though savouring the bouquet. It was strangely animalistic and set John's heart pounding even more furiously. He swallowed and attempted to compose his thoughts yet again.

"Sherlock, I vow to you, that if you do not get over yourself and fuck me already, I will smother you while you sleep."

"Now that is the enthusiasm I had hoped for." Sherlock rose up off the floor, filling John's senses of sight and smell and sound with his overpowering presence. The wet shirt still clung to his torso, but his erection was so prominent and lurid that the shirt was rucked up all about it, and his cock bobbed obscenely against the white fabric. He leant forward over John, obliterating all else, and pulled the shirt over his head.

John reached out, fingers stroking the sharp planes of Sherlock's abdomen and hips as he exposed the flesh. He had never expected to want anyone as furiously as he wanted Sherlock, especially another man, but the heart wanted what it wanted. He cupped one palm over Sherlock's sternum and stroked with his thumb. Sherlock clambered onto the bed over John, ungainly and adorable for a mere moment.

Sherlock lowered his weight onto the bed, pinning John down and once more rubbing their erections together. John bucked again. The slightest contact was nearly too much for his over-stimulated body to bear. 

Sherlock murmured vague endearments into his skin as he peppered a line of kisses along John's collarbone and throat. "Perhaps you should turn over, John? From what I have come to understand that might be the least difficult for you."

John shook his head adamantly. "I want to see you, Sherlock. It was impossible to imagine you climaxing as I read your letters, unable to see your face. I want to watch the spasms of pleasure as they distort your features."

Sherlock flushed deeper at this, and John kissed his throat impulsively. "I am glad you are the one who has admitted to succumbing to tawdry emotion, John. It saves me from having to lie about it."

John chuckled softly, and the way their bodies were connected from knee to chest sent all sorts of interesting sensations through his body. Sherlock nipped at his throat one last time before pushing himself up on his forearms. The small bottle of mineral oil was on the bed next to them, and it caught John's eye. He looked over at it, and peered into the space between their bodies, eyes on Sherlock's cock.

He shifted his weight, bringing his knees up and canting his hips forward, forcing Sherlock to rise up on his knees. The gap between them widened, but John reminded himself that it was only temporary, and necessary to reposition themselves slightly.

"Should I...?" He lifted one arm off the bed and gestured in the direction of Sherlock's tumescence before reaching for the bottle. Sherlock's hand reached over and stayed John's.

"I think it might be for the best if I do it myself, John." John's heart sank at the notion that Sherlock did not have faith in him, but Sherlock reached up and stroked his cheek. "No need to be concerned, John. I would greatly appreciate you offering another time, but right now I am afeared that if you touch me it will all be over too soon. You are not the only one currently over-excited."

Relief flooded through John as he watched Sherlock coat himself liberally with the oil. Gently, gently, with so much obvious care for John that it made his heart flutter, Sherlock lined up the head of his prick with John's relaxed opening. John could feel the tension in Sherlock's body, urging him to push forward. It was warring with the uncharacteristic concern that held Sherlock back, causing his muscles to tremble.

Encouragingly, John stroked his hands up and down the length of Sherlock's spine. He took a deep breath and nodded at Sherlock, who rocked his hips with more grace and delicacy than even John had imagined him capable of.

The first stretch was not unlike the slow burn of Sherlock's fingers earlier. It was more intense, and slightly more uncomfortable, but not as painful as John had been anticipating. He looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock, with his eyes squeezed shut in concentration, with his lower lip trapped between his teeth to stop himself from crying out. John reached up and gently stroked Sherlock's cheek with his fingertips, and a muffled gasp escaped his bite-swollen lips.

"Go on. I assure you, I can take it."

That was apparently all the encouragement Sherlock needed. Slowly, but steadily, he drove his hips forward. John gasped as he felt himself breached more deeply than Sherlock's fingers had been able to go, and focused on staying relaxed. It was not long before the stretch tipped from discomfort entirely into pleasurable warmth. He rocked his hips up, allowing Sherlock better access. Finally, Sherlock lost all sense of composure and drove himself the rest of the way into John in one smooth stroke. 

Sherlock made move to pull back but John gripped his buttocks and held him tightly in place. He puffed out a few breaths and smiled up at Sherlock.

"Just... just give me a moment to acclimatise."

Obligingly, Sherlock stilled his hips. John felt the warmth spread from the centre of his being out to the tips of his toes and fingers. He shifted his hips minutely, allowing Sherlock to slide in deeper, and they gasped in perfect unison. John relinquished his grip on Sherlock's rear end and nodded, encouraging Sherlock to thrust.

And thrust, he did. He slid the length of his cock nearly entirely out of John before thrusting back in. As if unable to control himself, he pounded several times before cursing softly and pausing for a moment, as if to confirm John was comfortable. Unable to form words, John gasped and nodded emphatically.

It was as if all the discomfort had entirely melted the moment Sherlock had managed to bury himself completely inside of John. It felt as though they had been made to fit together like this, and John found himself wondering how he had lived so long without Sherlock. He lifted his feet off the bed to rock his hips and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's thighs, locking them together as Sherlock continued pinioning his hips.

John was rewarded with a guttural, possessive growl from deep in Sherlock's chest as he thrust steadily. His pace picked up, and with each thrust John thought his heart might burst. The look on Sherlock's face was exquisite - his clear eyes shaded by heavy, hooded lids and his glorious cheeks fever-flushed. John kept one hand on the small of Sherlock's back as he thrust, stroking the soft skin there, and his other hand reached up to run through Sherlock's hair. He had come to realise he was a bit fixated on it, but Sherlock seemed to enjoy having his curls played with, so they were well-matched in yet another aspect.

With each thrust, John's cock bobbed against his stomach, leaking and neglected, and he brought one hand to his groin. Sherlock must have sensed the motion because he opened his eyes and looked down, and his pupils widened in a most gratifying manner.

"Oh, John, please. Touch yourself and let me watch. I want you to climax around me. Hurry."

The idea alone seemed to have sparked something deep within Sherlock, and his thrusts came quick and ragged. He was losing control of the situation, and John cherished being able to see him like that.

He wrapped one hand tightly around himself, spreading the slick fluid he found there along the length of his shaft. He groaned and buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder as he began to slide the loose skin up and over the head of his cock, over and over again. The familiar sensations, combined with the glorious and alien sensation of Sherlock fucking him - for there was truly no more appropriate word - spurred John closer and closer to violent climax.

John felt the moment when Sherlock's arms began to tremble, felt the moment when he was no longer able to hold himself back. Sherlock buried himself deeply within John and held perfectly still, as if every fibre in his being was attempting to hold back the flood of orgasm. Overwhelmed, John thrust his hand furiously around his own prick, and it was mere seconds before he felt the wave of his climax crashing over him. He saw spots and felt a tingling fire throughout his core, felt the warm wetness spilling across his hand, felt the muscles surrounding Sherlock's prick twitching and flexing.

That was all it took to steal Sherlock's climax from him too, and John could feel him shuddering, driving his hips into the back of John's thighs as he fought to drive himself deeper and deeper. John was convinced he could feel the hot slickness of Sherlock's ejaculate deep within him. They held each other, trembling and breathless, and rode out the last crest of glorious orgasm together.

Eventually, John fell heavily onto the mattress and pulled Sherlock with him. They were tangled together, slick with mingled cream and sweat. John groaned as Sherlock's flaccid penis slipped out of him. Sherlock leant loosely against John, apparently still craving physical contact.

Tentatively, John ran his fingers through Sherlock's sweat-dampened curls. He was ready to be rebuffed, but instead Sherlock sank bonelessly into the bed and mumbled in contentment.

"I think I should like to have you do that all night."

"Then I would have no choice but to sleep here. Whatever would the neighbours think?" John teased, hoping his tone masked the enthusiasm in his voice.

"You can leave your things in your room. Maintaining the pretense would be easy enough."

"I am never sure if you are serious when you say such things, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up at John, his face still delightfully slack and rosy. He traced John's nose and lips with the tip of one finger in a gesture John found strange and charming. "John. You should know by now, that when it comes to you and your happiness, I am never anything but serious."

John was touched, more than he could express. He smiled and continued gently scraping his nails across Sherlock's scalp, further disordering his hair.

"Besides, as I explained earlier. I am selfish, and it would be enormously to my benefit to have you closer to me whenever I felt the urge to touch you."

Rolling his eyes, John kissed Sherlock's forehead lightly. "You should have kept your mouth shut, you ridiculous man. Perhaps one day you will learn some tact."

"Perhaps." Sherlock mused, rolling onto his side. He tugged the coverlet over himself, leaving little to none for John. "But not tonight."


End file.
